Not so wonderful life
by Cuddles101
Summary: Gillian is held captive with no escape in sight. Who is her tormentor and what does he want from her? Written from Gill's POV. Drama/Angst/Hurt/Comfort. PG-13.
1. Part I - Lonely in my nightmare

**Not so wonderful life**

 **Disclaimer:** Gillian is held captive with no escape in sight. Who is her tormentor and what does he want from her? Written from Gill's POV. Drama/Angst/Hurt/Comfort. PG-13.

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 _Note: Just a little something I couldn't get out of my head._

 _You know the drill: this is a no profit venture, the characters belong to the Fox._

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 **Part I**

 **Lonely in my nightmare**

It's dark in here, it's always dark in here. He must like it this way. The only illumination is red diodes in the ceiling obscured by a matted glass, submerging most of the room in ambient shadows.

At times, I wonder how long it took him to make this prison inside his house. Days, weeks, months, years? Am I the first one he kidnapped or there have been other poor souls left to his mercy?

The room itself is decorated with taste, as if he made an effort to make it comfortable, even cosy. It has everything - a fully functioning bathroom with a tub and a toilet, the shelves full of beauty products, including a selection of luxurious oils, and well-chosen, captivating literature. There is even a stereo system with a CD collection, mainly jazz and soul.

It's almost like he knows my tastes.

Maybe he went to my house, talked to my family, friends and colleagues. The thought sends disturbing chills down my spine.

The king size bed is decorated with luxurious sheets, silky to the touch and extra soft pillows.

Only pleasant wrapping doesn't change the fact that I'm a prisoner, trapped in this nicely equipped hell with no way out.

There used to be a large window for letting in the daylight, providing a connection with the outside world, but he blocked it with a thick layer of bricks.

On their own accord, my thoughts wander to the place I'm deprived from. I almost feel the soft rays of the sun warming up my skin, the breeze of the wind playing with my hair and the lingering touch of the grass beneath my feet. The overwhelming longing becomes almost unbearable. Unshed tears glister at the corners of my eyes.

The never far question _'why'_ poisons me like venom, spreading through every cell of my body.

 _Why is he doing this to me?_

 _Why me?_

I wrap my arms around my knees and lean against the wall.

The silence and solitude becoming almost deafening.

Closing my eyes, I pray for someone to come and take me away from this misery.

Despite the odds, I still bear a naïve hope to get out of here. Maybe once he is tired of toying with me, he will set me free. Although, statistically speaking, lethal outcome is more likely.

I can't stay isolated much longer without losing my sanity.

Anybody out there, if you can hear me, please...

As if on cue, all too familiar steps approach. The lock clicks and the doors open.

"Good morning!" my tormentor greets me evenly. Dark, void of any emotions eyes meet mine. His expression never changes. It is always the same rigid, unreadable mask of cold indifference.

He nears me to put a tray with freshly baked food on the bedside table.

"Would you like some tea?" he offers. His tone, matching the expression, is detached, almost lifeless.

"No," I pull myself in the corner just to put some distance between us. He raises his hand as if to touch me, but seeing my flinch jerks away.

"You look exhausted," he observes the dark circles under my eyes, "would you like me to get you something?"

I'm beyond exhausted, but afraid to fall sleep as he might take an advantage of me. Given my weakened state he could easily overpower me even in awake, but for some reason so far has chosen not to.

Nonetheless, he comes to me in sleep. Already several times I have woken finding his arms roaming over my body, uninvited caresses covering my hair, my face, my skin, my lips. It has never gone beyond that, but I feel violated nevertheless.

"I just want to get out of here," quiet plea sounds pathetic, even weak, to my own ears.

"You know I can't let you out," he reprimands, as if talking to a petulant child.

"And why not?" I challenge, finding some of that fire I thought was lost. Every time I bring up the question, he gives me the same blank reply.

He looks oddly disconcerted as he pinches the bridge of his nose and absently chews on his lower lip. For a split second, I dare to hope that for once he will answer. If only I knew why he brought me here, what he wants from me, I could figure a way to escape. But the hesitation is short-lived as the habitual mask of absolute indifference slips back on.

"Are you sure you don't want anything else?" he probes with the same expressionless detachment.

"I don't want anything," I turn away facing the wall, showing with all my being that the conversation is over.

I think he's lonely. He brings me food on regular basis whether I want it or not, tries to engage me in a conversation, ease my stay in his house, but I refuse to participate in this perverse imitation of normalcy.

I hear a soft shuffle as he repositions himself getting better access to my body. My heart fills with dread knowing what is about to come.

"No, please, don't," I beg him. Tears I'm no longer able to hold run freely down my cheeks. I hate to be weak in front of him, but not able to stop myself.

My pleads land on deaf ears as the needle mercifully pierces the skin of my upper arm. Hot tingling sensation spreads throughout my body and I'm mentally preparing for the weakness, nausea and spasms that are about to come.

He releases vice like grip and stands up. Casting last impassive look in my direction he exits the room, his departure followed by all too familiar click of the lock. I'm left behind silently weeping.

I don't know what he keeps injecting, but it affects me tremendously. My resolve becomes weaker, each new day I drift further away from the reality. My thoughts are scattered. It is difficult to concentrate and my memory slowly fades away. My bones and skin are aching.

Every shot drains remaining reserves of the energy. All I can do is lay still and listen as my laboured breathing echoes in my temples.

When the spasms subdue, I feel miserable. A hollow void engulfs me, pulls me towards the edge until I find myself sucked into the nothingness.

That's it, that's what my life has come down to.

I'm desperate and lonely in my nightmare.

 _tbc_


	2. Part II - When in need

**_Note:_** _A lot of thanks to reviewers! You inspired me to proceed..._

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 **Part II**

 **When in need**

Violence is not so much about the actual pain as it is about the fear engraved in the memory of its victims. While my memories might be obscured, the fear that I feel is real.

Faceless figures surround me. Their constant humming intensifies, until I can hear snippets of their words.

Taunting, threatening, confusing.

They circle and swirl around me until it all comes down to one face, his face.

Ain't it enough that I'm under his mercy during waking hours, he has to invade my nightmares too?!

His face distorts in a macabre smile as he approaches me with unhealthy gleam in his dark eyes. His touch is cold, like death. The air is getting staler. Sudden, irrational fear that I'm going to die right here, right now takes over.

The fear spreads through my veins, leaving me immobile in its wake. I want to run, but my feet refuse to comply.

The walls are closing up on me. There isn't enough oxygen.

As the wave of panic surges through my body, I open my mouth and scream.

The dream mixes with the reality, as the doors swing open and strong arms grab me. I kick and cry, trashing myself against my assailant, "No, don't touch me, leave me alone!"

But no matter how hard I try, I cannot shake off his grip.

"Stop it, you are hurting yourself," his tone bears a steely edge, one you would expect from an army commander, someone used to giving orders and have them carried out. Only it doesn't work with me. Even half-wake, I refuse to obey.

"Please, let me out, you can't keep me locked up like an animal," I demand tugging against his steely hold.

"I have to," his tone is flat, non-apologetic, as he reaches for the syringe tucked in his pocket, "there is no other way, you'll see!"

I'm sick of his mockery, of his delusions and superiority complex. Who the hell does he think he is?

A rage like nothing I have experienced before sweeps through me, filling my limbs with an ice-cold energy. Way past caring about possible consequences, I lash out at him.

"The hell I will! What's wrong with you, locking me up for some dirty pleasure, as if I'm your little science project? What do you want form me? To cleanse my soul and make me whole again, is that it? Or you're a control freak, getting perverse satisfaction from tormenting those weaker than you?"

Through the haze I feel the hold on my arms slack, but I'm not done yet.

"You're not a human, sick son of the bitch, you're a freak!" I cannot stop in my desire to hurt him the way his detached indifference has hurt me, "it is you, who should be isolated from the society, not me!"

He stands there like someone just poured a bucket of ice-cold water over his head, too stunned to say anything, too shocked to act.

Still high with the abundance of adrenaline rushing wildly through my veins, I launch myself at him using the surprise moment in my advantage.

He stumbles from the impact as I crash into him, my fist reaching his nose. He looses footing and tripping over a low chair behind his back, crashes heavily to the floor.

It is the window of opportunity I have been praying for!

Without wasting another moment I run for the doors. My trembling fingers fumble with the key, which refuses to turn.

"Gillian," though the pulsation of my temples I hear him growl my name while he stumbles back to his feet. The underlying warning is not lost on me.

Abandoning futile attempts to lock the doors, I run down the stairs towards my salvation.

The rest of the house is equally dark. All the windows are covered with heavy, dark blinds. Seems he has some serious issues with the daylight or the outside world altogether. Stumbling in the darkness, I almost trip on some electrical cord, barely managing to hold my balance.

A stabbing pain begins at my temple. My breath catches in my lungs and my knees feel wobbly from all the physical effort. Seems I'm even weaker than I thought.

I'm almost at the entrance doors, when he catches up with me. The blood is pouring down his nose, but he doesn't appear to be even remotely out of breath.

I refuse to go out without a fight, as he tackles me down to the floor. We wrestle for a short while, but I'm no match to his physical strength. He easily overpowers me, clamping my hands in a tight grip behind my back. He has me pinned down on my stomach, pushing his knee in my back.

Angry tears escape my eyes. The injustice of the situation is overwhelming, being so close to the freedom just to have it snatched away!

Roughly, he hauls me back to my feet, but the sudden movement makes me dizzy and my knees buckle. Without having my arms for balance I stagger, almost tripping over. His other arm shots across my chest as he pulls me close.

In the silence of the house, I can hear his strong, albeit slight erratic heartbeat againsrt my spine.

His proximity provides me with a weapon. Bracing myself for the impact, I smash my head against his face, no doubts hitting already damaged nose for the second time. It doesn't take him out, but is enough for his grip to slack.

Breaking free, I take the last steps and push the handle.

"Noooooo" his agitated roar echoes in my ears, as the doors open.

The daylight momentarily blinds me. It's been so long since I've seen it.

I manage to take a couple of steps, before searing pain strikes me, razing through like a bolt of lightning, burning every cell of my body in its wake. My head is pounding, my limbs are trembling and I feel myself falling.

Strong arms catch me just before I hit the ground.

I want to scream, to call for help, but no sound escapes my lips as I shake in convulsions. My head, my skin, my whole body feels like on fire.

What is happening? What has he done to me?

I feel all too familiar prick of the needle penetrating my skin. The last thing I remember before falling into oblivion are raw burn like marks on my flesh and commanding quality of his voice, as he cradles me like a small child, easily picking me up and returning back inside, "you're going to be just fine, everything is going to be alright."

I vaguely remember waking up in what could be a hospital room, judging by the medical equipment.

Heavily sedated, I keep zooming in and out of reality, unable to think, to move, to defend myself.

I hear the doctor calling him by a name when they talk. It feels vaguely familiar, but I cannot put my finger on where I have heard it before.

My voice is oddly subdued as I plead with the nurse while she checks my vitals and changes the IV bag, "please, help me!"

She patronizingly pats me on the arm, before exiting the room.

"Why won't you help me?" I beg the doctor, but he just scribbles something in his notes never taking time to actually look at me.

Whenever I drift into consciousness, I beseech the medical staff to help me, but they just turn a blind eye.

I have always harbored such a strong faith in humanity. The reality is hard to accept.

Even the fact that he must have lied to make me look like some lunatic doesn't diminish my disillusionment.

 _tbc_


	3. Part III - Secrets of the heart

_**Note:** Dedicated to all, who took an effort and time to leave a review. __Thank you guys! I wouldn't have done it without your support._

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 **Part III**

 **Secrets of the heart**

Consciousness greets me with unpleasant shiver down the spine, almost like proverbial someone just walked over my grave. I try to shake away the unease.

The faint throbbing at the base of my scull is slowly turning into a full-blown headache.

Finally, I dare to open my eyes. For once the world doesn't spin in a crazy marry-go-round.

When the black dots stop their uncoordinated dance in front of my eyes, I momentarily recognize the place. Familiar walls of my semi dark prison meet me in silent mockery.

I remember him sitting by my bedside at the hospital. Looking around the room I feel almost disappointed to be alone.

 _No, stop it, don't you dare to develop a Stockholm syndrome!_ I chide myself.

I have lost any sense of time, never sure if it's a day or a night. The hospital did not help to regain my bearings either. Whenever I woke, it was as dark as this place. The whole time being drugged to the point of oblivion didn't help matters either.

Pulling myself upwards, I lean against the bedpost, only now noticing the fresh bandages covering my arms. They go all the way to the elbow. Tentatively, my fingertips trace the outlines of my face only to find more bandages there.

What the hell happened?

Last thing I remember was running out of the front doors. The rest is a blur.

Lost in my thoughts I miss the approaching footsteps. Only the click of the lock brings me out of my reverie.

He brings the customary tray with food. From the corner of my eye I see that aside from the porridge there is some medicine, which he apparently expects me to take.

His face bears marks of my attack, but somehow it doesn't bring me satisfaction.

"Hi," I decide to break the customary routine of silent treatment. For once I actually long for some company, even if it is him.

If I didn't know better, I would have assumed that a glimpse of surprise crossed his features and something resembling a sigh of relief escaped his lips, but that would be far too expressive for the aloof man.

"How are you doing?" he asks, routinely putting the tray on the bedside table.

"A bit like a deep fried lobster, but otherwise peachy," I remark without the usual venom in my voice.

He observes me closely, since this is the first time I voluntarily engage in a conversation, without him probing and pushing, trying to elicit at least some sort of reaction.

"You got us quite worried for a while," his slip of a tongue catches me off guard. What does he mean by _us_? Lord, please do not let them be the voices inside his head.

The aroma of freshly prepared porridge spreads throughout the enclosed space, making my already uneasy stomach quiver. I take a deep, calming breath not to heave.

As if sensing my discomfort, he pulls the offensive plate away.

"You have a headache?" he asks observing my wince.

"And a killer one at that," I manage a faint smile, "can't seem to think straight."

"Is there something you would like?" he offers impassively.

"Orange slushee…" the answer bursts out of my lips, before I have a chance to think.

He looks at me with such bewilderment as if I just grew a second head or something.

"…and don't ask me how old I am," I snap all the while wondering where the hell did that come from.

He seems to be taken aback by my sudden outburst. In all honesty, I'm equally astounded.

Suddenly, he stiffens. Dark eyes are almost burning with their intensity. I feel like a mouse stalked by a hawk.

"Why slushee?" he asks in a low voice.

"I saw one in a magazine," something prompts me to lie.

"You're a terrible liar," he narrows his eyes to show his doubt.

"Normal people think that's a good thing," I retaliate trying to suppress a shudder.

He stiffens even more, if that's humanly possible. The movement is subtle, but still there. For a long while he examines my face as if searching for something, but is visibly disappointed with the result. Not finding what he was looking for, he finally pulls himself together and decides that it is time to leave.

"Wait," I call out when he turns to the doors, "please, stay, talk to me."

Somehow, the thought of being alone makes me literally sick.

He stops, but doesn't turn. For a moment I have a sinking feeling that he will leave regardless of what I say, but he doesn't. Turning back he slowly approaches the bed and takes a seat in the far corner, not to invade my personal space.

"What would you like us to talk about?" he eyes me evenly.

"Do you have a family, are you married?" I blur out the first thing that comes to my mind, only then realizing that it came out rather blunt, but it is too late to take it back.

To my astonishment, his eyes do not hold any offence or anger, only sadness. Sadness I'm all too familiar with, a mix of loneliness and rejection.

For a while he just focuses on a non-existent point somewhere in a distance as if weighting his options. When he speaks, I'm surprised how soft his voice can be, when it loses is detached steeliness.

"I have a daughter from my first marriage, last year she moved to the college campus," he answers candidly. For some inexplicable reason images of a curly haired, freckled girl and dark haired woman flash in my mind, but in an instant they vanish without a trace.

"Years after my first marriage fell apart, I got married the second time. She is the love of my life," I barely pay attention to his words, too stunned at seeing a dreamy smile on the otherwise impenetrable face, "without her, I'm lost. But enough about me, what about you?"

"What about me?" I dumbly repeat, for the first time noticing that his eyes are not black, but chocolate brown. Somehow they do not seem so threatening anymore.

"Are you married?" he probes.

I look at him curiously. Somehow, I always assumed that he knows everything about my life. Nevertheless, he appears enormously interested in the answer, almost to the brink of holding his breath.

"No! I don't think so," the lack of conviction in my voice is alarming. Trying to put my obscured memories in any kind of order only renews the ferocity with which the dark dots have resumed their wild dance in front of my eyes, worsening already intolerable headache.

Is it just my imagination, or a rapidly masked disappointment just slid across his features?

"You ok?" the concern in his voice unmistakable.

He almost touches my palm, but retracts his hand. I get an impression that he longs to embrace me and remove that look of utter confusion from my face, but knows better. Something about the situation feels déjà vu. For a second I'm almost compelled to allow him the gesture. It feels oddly appropriate, but in my mind I know it is not.

"I'm fine," I reply blinking a few times to refocus.

Taking a brief pause I try to formulate my next question in a more diplomatic way, "so this wife of yours, doesn't she mind that you spend so much time away?"

"I don't think so," he shrugs nonchalantly.

I hardly believe it to be true, but let it slide.

"Does she know about me?" I cut to the chase.

Despite the challenge in my eyes, he doesn't break the contact. He stares back with such intensity that would normally unnerve me, but somehow it doesn't. Actually, it's peculiarly comforting.

It takes some time, before he answers, "yes and no."

My brow furrows in confusion, "what do you mean?"

He just stares back expectantly. The silence protracts.

"We're talking about your wife…" I growl exasperatedly, tired of his mind games, but never get to finish the sentence.

"Not about, but to," he corrects.

"What on earth…" I start, when the implication hits me like a thunder amongst clear sky, leaving me dumfounded and at loss of words. Did he just imply? No, it cannot be, can it!? Seriously, I don't even know the man!

Meanwhile, he takes a piece of paper out of his pocket and slips it into my slightly trembling palm. I look at it to find all too familiar faces staring back. The picture is unmistakably taken on a wedding day. We both look extremely happy.

The inscription below states Mr and Mrs Lightman. I roll the word in my head, recognizing the name I overheard in the hospital. It still doesn't ring a bell.

My eyes meet his in a silent plea for this to be a lie, but his expression is earnest.

"When did we, how long have we…" my mind is swirling.

"Counting from the moment the vicar announced us husband and wife it has been five years, nine months, two days," he quickly checks his watch, "twelve hours and thirteen minutes."

I would have smirked at the military precise countdown, if my mind hadn't been caught up in a disturbing realization. Shifting my gaze from bandages on my arms to his face and back, I conclude, "I have a disease, which is affecting more than just my memory."

His mouth twitch ever so slightly, but he remains silent.

"Just spit it out," I insist, "I have the right to know what's wrong with me!"

He holds my gaze. For a moment, it seems he is considering lying, but instead reluctantly nods a soft confirmation.

"Eleven months ago we went to Peru for the holidays. You developed an infection. It activated dormant gene in your DNA, attacking your immune system, destroying it cell by cell. It is a rare genetic condition, a form of an autoimmune disease, one bearing similarities to a severe form of lupus. Irreversible memory loss is a part of it, but not all. The symptoms also include irrational fear, paranoia, epilepsy and photophobia. Even small amounts of light can cause a severe damage to the tissue. It took me a while to figure that the red diode illumination works best with your pigmentation," his tone sounds strangely dethatched while he starkly recounts the facts. I'm not sure whether it is meant to protect him or me.

My mind refuses to accept his words, but deep down I know it is true.

While he didn't really suggest it, I'm an expert in reading between the lines.

"There is no cure?" I summarize brazenly.

The guilt and despair in his eyes speaks louder than words.

"It's all my fault," he offers instead.

"How do you figure?" I ask taken aback by the sudden revelation.

"You didn't want to go, but I persuaded you, adamant to show the village where I started my initial research," I watch him speak, noticing every miniscule detail, badly searching for something that would spark my memory. Nothing, zero, nada!

"Don't blame yourself. You couldn't have known," I put a comforting hand on his shoulder. It is true. I do not hold him accountable for my condition. Things happen, one just has to learn to live with it. Albeit, my generic knowledge on the autoimmune diseases leads me to believe that my time might be rather limited.

He almost melts against the touch, gently brushing his cheek against my skin.

"No one really knows how the memory loss works," his tone is unexpectedly calm, answering my unvoiced question, "why you remember bits and pieces of your childhood, your school, studies, work as psychologist and even marriage to Alec, but you have absolutely no recollections of me, of us. You do not remember our first meeting at Pentagon, have forgotten how I persuaded you to join me in the wild venture which was beginning of the Lightman group, you do not recall how your trust in me pulled us through many rough times, and finally, how the bond established with years of friendship and professional partnership flourished into love. Everything we ever shared is lost to you."

All I can do is to stare at him in awe, still trying to process the fact that we are married. My brain feels like exploding from the abundance of information.

I need a moment to catch my breath, before I lose it.

Several steading intakes later I finally reopen my eyes.

He is waiting patiently.

"Why didn't you say something?" I enquire, quirking an eyebrow.

"I did," his reply is laced with emotion, "but it didn't go overly well. Several times, you went all paranoid trashing the place and putting up a fight, accusing me of lying, of planning some Machiavelli plot against you and the humanity. In other instances, you either shut down in fear, or got extremely upset or angry for not being able to remember. It all only aggravated your already fragile state. Besides, it never took long for you to forget. I consulted with the doctor and we agreed that silence was the best course of action. The truth caused you only unnecessary pain."

"Truth or happiness, never both," I mutter absentmindedly, unaware of the significance of my words.

There is something I want to ask, but do not know how.

"All those time I woke in your arms…" I pause not sure how to finish the sentence, but he understands.

"It was consensual, you either had some recollections the night before or simply wanted to be comforted. I would have never taken an advantage of you," his words are sincere.

If all of it is legit, his is taking it remarkably good, "How are you doing? Is it hard to remain silent?"

He turns away as if my question hit too close to the home. When his eyes meet mine, imperturbable mask has vanished. Raw emotions embedded on his face are scary with their intensity.

He seems miles away as he speaks, his tone unusually soft, "was it hard to let you slip away, to see the love we once shared disappear from your eyes, being replaced by mistrust and hatred when you no longer knew who I was? My heart breaks every day, but it is an agony I'm willing to take as long as I can be by your side, even when you send me to rot in hell."

Who would have thought that underneath the cool, arrogant, exterior is a delicate heart, one that can be easily wounded by my insensitive remarks and actions.

"My God…" sudden flashback reminds me of our earlier fight. In the heat of the moment, I said he was a freak, I screamed at him that he didn't deserve to live. Normally, I wouldn't say such even to my worst enemy or at least I think I wouldn't, but at the time I was completely lost in rage. I wanted to hurt him like I thought he had hurt me, "…the things that I said…"

I want to apologize, but he hushes me, "don't worry, it comes with the territory. You have called me worse before."

Somehow I seriously doubt it. I know that my verbal attack hurt him far more than the physical one ever could. I would love to take back my harsh words, but the damage is done. Knowledge that I will keep hurting him during the paranoia attacks is less than reassuring.

I reach over and stroke my fingers against his unshaven cheek. Somewhat, it feels the right thing to do. He is surprised at first, but doesn't pull away melting into the caress. A single tear escapes his brown eyes, slowly tracking down his skin as he kisses my palm.

"God, I wish I could remember you, remember us," I brush it away with my thumb.

"No worries, luv, I will," he winks, eyes finally catching some of that light I hoped to evoke, "for both of us."

Despite the soft, easy-going tone, his promise is dead serious.

"No doubts you will," I smile feeling strangely reassured.

For once, I do not flinch when he shifts closer and wraps his arms around my exhausted frame. With unexpected ease, I allow myself to be cuddled. His embrace is welcoming, affectionate and safe. A faint memory from somewhere deep down the hazy recesses of my mind recognizes the familiarity of the gesture.

"I love you, Gillian," his soft breath is hot against my lips, "till death do us part."

The words are interlaced with particularly deep emotion. I wish I could return the sentiment. Instead I just pull him closer, deepening the kiss.

I rest my head against his chest, his heartbeat strong against my ear, pulsating rhythm soothing my fried nerves.

Life is no fairy tale. It is never going to be alright, there is no bright future ahead, but I take comfort in the knowledge that he will be by my side every step of the way, for better or worse.

With a content sigh I let my eyes close, drifting towards unconsciousness I try to hold on to his unconditional love for as long as my short-circuited mind would allow.

\- FIN -


End file.
